The Lost
by Mistress Scribbles
Summary: A little standalone ghost story. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

Oooh! A ghost story! This one's all my idea, and, again, is not a part of the New Adventures, although there are some similarities, particularly concerning what the kids decide to do with themselves once they're out of the Realm. And I may be using The Wicca Men again in the future, because I think it's cool. Any resemblance parts of this story may have to any other popular ghost/horror movies is probably thoroughly intentional! Sorry about the language.

Scribbles.

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THE LOST

One

'Wake up... For the love of God, wake up! Come on. Come on, Eric. Wake up!'

But he couldn't move. He could only lie in darkness, paralysed, as the panic within him grew. There was something coming. Some terrible menace, but what was it? What was it... He tried to cry out but his mouth was frozen shut and his vocal chords couldn't make any sound greater than a hiss.

'Wake up... Wake up...'

Something was shaking him by the shoulders, but still he couldn't move. He was falling... was he? Wasn't he? There were hands on his shoulders. It was here! It was...

He gasped into consciousness, propping himself up on his elbows and staring about himself in disorientation.

He was on a sofa. On _his_ sofa, in his room. He was still in his Bowling Alley uniform, shoes and all. The lights were on, and there was an open book on his chest. He rubbed his eyes, moaning slightly. He must've fallen asleep reading again.

'You must've fallen asleep reading again.'

Eric gave his concerned friend a sarcastic little smile.

'You don't say.'

Presto stood up, sighing. Eric was working way too hard. He had been looking increasingly exhausted recently. It had been such a pity to wake him now, but this was going to be a very important Job.

Eric sat up, still rubbing his stinging eyes. 'What time is it?'

'Nine...'

'Shit!' Eric leapt to his feet, eyes widening. 'I'll be late! Why didn't you wake me earlier?'

Presto rolled his eyes. Ah, the many disadvantages of living in a basement with no windows... 'In the evening.'

Eric talked straight over his friend, ignoring him. 'Jesus, I don't have time to shower... do I need to shave?... Listen, can you call shift manager, tell him I'm gonna be late...'

Presto grabbed Eric's collar as he hurried past, stopping him.

'It's nine at night, Eric.'

'Really?' Eric's relief quickly turned to irritation. 'So what the Hell did you wake me up for?'

Presto picked up the large duffel bag that he had set on the floor along with his jacket. 'We got a Job.'

'For sure? A Wicca Men Job?' Eric grinned excitedly. 'Cool! How much are they paying us?'

Presto winced as Eric began to change into the first jeans and sweater he could find on the floor, without waiting for an answer.

'They're not.'

Eric sighed despairingly. 'Presto, what have I told you about trying to do the bookings yourself? You're hopeless. Just leave the negotiating to me tonight, OK? We should get a few bucks for our trouble...'

'They offered, but I said no.'

'You said _no_?' Eric opened and closed his mouth a couple of times in disbelief. 'What... Why? What reason could you possibly have for turning down payment for your first commission?'

Presto paused briefly. 'It's Sheila O'Brian.'

'Oh. I see.' Eric's expression softened. 'She OK?'

Presto shrugged. 'Sounds like she's got a spook, so she's kinda scared.'

'Understandable.' Eric stooped to put on a pair of battered, much loved trainers. A thought struck him and he looked up at his friend. 'She didn't mention anything about... you know... remembering...?'

'She didn't say.' Presto picked up Eric's jacket and handed it to him. 'But if she's anything like the rest of us... you know we all promised we'd let each other know if any memories came back...'

'Yeah...' began Eric, cut off suddenly by the doorbell ringing.

Presto looked at Eric brightly. 'That'll be the cab.'

Eric nodded, smiling slightly to himself. 'Not exactly Ecto One.'

'We can make siren noises out of the window, if you like,' grinned Presto.

Eric zipped up his jacket and took one of the handles of the heavy duffle bag. He caught Presto's eyes, the younger teenager's expression inscrutable as ever. 'You frightened?'

'Are you kidding?'

'What's that, a yes or a no?'

The pair laughed amongst themselves as they climbed the stairs out of the basement, and neither of them noticed the word scrawled on the back of Eric's discarded work shirt, the large, dark letters that read, simply, 'REMEMBER'.

---

'Remember what?'

'Hmm?'

'Remember what?' Presto pointed to the the word written in marker pen on the back of Eric's hand. Eric turned his attention away from the river of lights streaming past the taxi window and looked at the hand himself, frowning in confusion.

'I don't know,' he admitted at last. 'I can't remember.'

The irony of an amnesiac forgetting what a reminder note was for wasn't lost on either of them. They shared a small, sad laugh as Eric went back to watching the world fly past the window.

'You're not having a... a relapse, are you?'

Eric didn't look at Presto, but shook his head at the moving lights.

Presto bit his lip in the uncomfortable silence.

'Why don't you jack that stupid Ten Pin Monkey job in?' he blurted, eventually.

'You know why.'

'But you're running yourself down.' Presto managed to meet eyes with Eric's reflection in the window. 'At least cut down your hours. You don't really need to pay my Mom rent for that basement.'

'Yes I do, Presto.' Eric still didn't look directly at his friend. 'I need to show that bastard I can do this on my own. He needs to know he can't control my life any more.'

'He called again today, you know,' added Presto. 'Well... his secretary did... but I think you're winning.'

'He knows where to find me,' answered Eric, with a tone to his voice that indicated that that was the end of the conversation.

Presto sat back in the cab and tried to gather his thoughts. Sheila O'Brian... who'd have thought it? Of course he couldn't charge her, a fellow Freak. There were only a handful of them, those kids that had gone missing one ordinary Sunday afternoon and had returned a few days later, in wretched states, with absolutely no memory of what had happened to them. From that day on, for the entire fourteen months that had passed since, not one of them had been able to remember the events that had led to them being discovered by a kindly stranger, passed out together amongst the tumble-down remains of the old funfair, disorientated, emaciated and bizarrely dressed. But they had all sensed changes within themselves, and felt a great bond between the group, even though nobody had the faintest idea why. And they all suffered from nightmares, which, again, they couldn't remember the details of once they awoke. They all stayed in touch, of course - there was almost a sense of family amongst the young amnesiacs, but a month or so after they had been found they had made the mutual decision to try to get on with their lives as normally as possible, to wean themselves off each other. It had worked, for a while. But then there had been that storm that had swept Eric into Presto's basement. The doorbell chime at well past midnight, the bedraggled black haired youth standing with a suitcase and an apology on his doorstep... since then, they'd been inseparable. And now Sheila had called on him. It seemed that they couldn't stay apart.

Presto wondered what had scared Sheila so much. He'd heard she'd taken up Self Defence classes lately. She could certainly handle herself much better than she used to. As could he. He'd traded in his marked playing cards for a tarot set pretty much as soon as he got back after going missing. He didn't want to do stupid tricks any more. He could do real magic. He could. He could! His parents worried about it, of course, but he kept himself out of mischief, so they let him get on with it and hoped that it was just another phase. They had not been particularly pleased when Eric had come up with the idea of doing witchcraft professionally. Presto was, after all, still only fourteen. But this was OK... this was just helping out a friend in need... _what_ had spooked Sheila like that?

The cab drew to a halt outside the O'Brian house. Whatever it was, mused Presto grimly, he was going to find out about it really soon.

---

Sheila knew full well who it was at the door, but still looked through the peephole as a matter of course before opening it.

'Who ya gonna call...?' grinned Eric as she swung the door open to them.

She smiled in relief. 'Hey guys.'

She put an arm around each boys' outside shoulder and hugged them both, together.

'I'm so glad you could make it tonight.' She could feel the tears coming. God, she'd missed them both so much!

Eric was the first to notice the shudder of her shoulders, and broke out of the hug.

'Shit.' He brushed a tear away from her face. 'What the Hell happened, Sheila?'

Sheila shook her head. 'Weird things. For a while. But tonight... my parents are away, see... and... something attacked Bobby.'

The two boys spoke at the same time, Presto asking what kind of "thing", and Eric asking whether her little brother was all right.

Sheila ushered the pair into the house, wiping her eyes. 'He's pretty shaken up, but he'll be OK,' she sighed. 'We don't know what it was, but it was strong and it was invisible.'

Presto walked with her as Eric trailed with the bag. 'How did it attack him?'

'He was just watching TV,' replied Sheila, 'and I went into the kitchen... next thing I knew, he was screaming.' She paused, her hand on the living room door. 'I ran in, and... he was on the floor, shaking. Like something had him by the shoulders, y'know?'

'Jesus,' whispered Eric.

Sheila pushed open the door, gently, and the three of them stepped cautiously into the living room. The ten year old boy was lying on his belly in the middle of the carpet, drawing in a notebook, a serious expression on his face.

'Bobby?' piped Sheila, 'there's some old friends here to see you.'

The boy didn't look up from his drawing. 'Hey, Presto. Hey, Eric.'

Presto stepped up to the sofa and ran his hands over it, concentrating, trying to eke the memory of the attack out of it.

'Did something scary happen to you tonight, Bobby?' he asked.

Bobby still didn't look up. 'Well, I got thrown around the room by an angry poltergeist. Does that count as scary?'

'You know it was a poltergeist?' Presto's hands found a cold patch just above one of the sofa's seats. There was definitely something wrong with this room.

'I know it was mad,' replied the child, still drawing, 'I think it's the Thing I've been getting the nightmares about. There was the same voice in my head.'

'A voice?' asked Eric, sitting on the floor next to the boy, 'did it say anything?'

'Told me to wake up,' muttered Bobby, 'told me to remember him.'

Eric cocked his head slightly at the boy's drawing. Another unicorn. Bobby had been drawing unicorns obsessively ever since the Incident.

'What'cha drawing there, Bob?'

Bobby slammed the notebook shut, suddenly. 'Nothin'.'

'Then what happened, Bobby?' asked Presto.

'Then it stopped.' Bobby sat up and looked over at Presto. 'That's all. Geez, what's up with you guys?'

'They're just trying to help, Bobby,' said Sheila from her corner next to the door, 'I'm sick of being scared all the time, aren't you?'

'So, what,' came a familiar voice from the kitchen, 'they're Exorcists now?'

Eric beamed automatically at the young woman framed in the kitchen doorway. 'It can't be.'

But it could. There she was, leaning against the side of the door, a mug at her lips, masking the smile that her eyes couldn't hide.

'Diana Fucking Jones. Well well well well well.'

She removed the cup from her mouth, using it to toast him sarcastically.

'Eric Fucking Montgomery. Bonjour.'

Eric got to his feet, still grinning. 'Don't wear it out, Sweetheart.'

'Not your Sweetheart, Sweetheart.' She drank again. 'So how are you these days?'

'I'm good. I'm living in a Witch's basement, but I'm good.' He tried to lean against the sofa's back, but missed. 'So what are you doing here?' he asked, recovering quickly.

'Babysitting...' began Diana.

'She's been getting the nightmares bad recently,' interrupted Bobby, ignoring the tall girl's dirty look, 'she's been staying with us for a week now.'

'Us girls have to stick together,' shrugged Sheila with a little smile.

A silence fell. They knew full well that they were all thinking the same thing.

It was Presto who said it, at last.

'Wow. So here we all are again.'

They all nodded. For the first time in over a year, they were all together again. Together alone for the first time since the five of them had woken up in that wasteland, their memories destroyed.

'Everybody's here.'

The words had scarcely left his lips before the smashing noises began in the empty kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

THE LOST

Two

Five heads snapped around to the kitchen doorway in horror, ten feet rooted to the floor in fear. Nobody screamed, their voices caught in their throats. The smashing sounds stopped as abruptly as they had begun, leaving no noise but the odd glassy tinkle and the laboured breathing of the five friends.

There was a long pause. Nobody moved.

Diana swallowed and said, cautiously, 'Hello?'

No sound, no movement from the kitchen.

Diana tried again, louder this time. 'Who's there?'

Nothing. Another moment of still silence passed. Sheila started, quietly, to cry.

'You're frightening us!' shouted Bobby with such a sudden violence that the tones of it reverberated around the room.

Presto put a hand on the child's shoulder, urging him to be quiet.

Sheila stepped forward a little, trembling. 'Somebody should clear that lot up...'

'Oh no you don't.' Diana pushed the other girl back. 'I'll go.' She gave the others a hopeful shrug. 'It must be my fault. I bet I didn't put the glasses back properly when I washed up.'

Eric shoved his way to the front of the group. 'I'll go with you.' He wasn't surprised to see Presto and Sheila roll their eyes at one another. 'Hey. I bet Presto needs to get more of a feel of this room. I'm just doing my bit.'

--- ---

The kitchen floor was covered in broken glass. Every inch of it was spiked with razor sharp transparent shards.

'Oh my God.' Diana stood at the kitchen door, her hand at her mouth.

Eric appeared behind her, dustpan in hand, 'It must be all the glass in the kitchen. Still think it was an accident?'

Diana snatched the dustpan and brush off Eric as he picked his way over to the dustbin. 'What do you suppose?'

He held the bin up to her, and she dumped the first of the glass into it in a sullen silence.

'It's been too long, Dee,' he smiled to her.

Diana crouched carefully to sweep up more glass. 'And who's fault is that?' she muttered.

Eric shrugged with a carefully rehearsed nonchalance. 'Fate?'

Diana snorted a bitter laugh, shaking her head. 'The seventeenth, you said.'

'Hey, I have a valid excuse for that.' Eric held up the bin to her. The glass smashed up further as she brushed it in. 'I was in Peru at the time.'

'Yes. I heard.' Sweep. Dump. Smash. 'For three months, wasn't it? Pretty extreme measures for getting out of Dinner.'

'Oh, you really believe I'd rather be milking goats than having dinner with a pretty girl?'

Sweep. Dump. Smash.

'You were only supposed to be going for ten days!'

'You're right. I was. That's why I said I'd meet you on the seventeenth.' Sweep. Dump. Smash. 'But I'll tell you something, Diana... the first night I spent there, I couldn't sleep a wink. I was surrounded by people who could barely afford to feed or clothe themselves, and there I was moping around trying to _find _myself.'

Sweep. Dump. Smash. 'So, did you find yourself or what?'

Eric shook his head. 'Better. I found uses for myself. I found myself so useful that I stayed for three months.'

Diana stopped sweeping. 'Nine weeks of which were school.'

'Yeah.' Eric smiled resignedly. 'Can't say I was surprised to return to an expulsion.' He rolled his eyes. 'From school, anyway. Finding out Dad had changed the locks, I'll admit, kinda threw me.'

'He'd have been worried about you.'

Eric shook his head. 'Nah, he was just mad that I didn't come running back when he told me to.' He held the bin out to her again. 'Best thing that ever happened to me. Found a new school, got a job, got a sexy new Bachelor Pad in a suburban basement...'

Diana dumped more glass in the bin with a tinkle. 'And The Wicca Men?'

'My idea,' grinned Eric, 'Presto's name. I wanted to go with The Hex Factor, but apparently _that's_ too negative.'

'So you're a Witch too?'

Eric laughed suddenly, with a gently mocking warmth. 'Get outta here! I'd never be able to do what he's capable of! I'm just the admin guy - accounts, bookings, sweeping floors, that sorta thing. I leave all the real work down to him.'

'You must have a lot of faith in him.'

Eric nodded, matter of factly, as Presto passed by the door, fingers out, gently humming a single, suspended note. 'He's the best there is. He'll have this little problem all ironed out in no time. Before we've finished sweeping, I bet.'

Diana just 'humph'ed and carried on sweeping.

Eric bit down a relieved smile. He had not been looking forward to explaining his sudden, protracted absence to the girl he'd fought so hard to arrange a date with one little bit, and the more he'd avoided the matter on his return, the harder it had become to call her. But now he'd finally done it. And she was mad at him! It was great! The one thing he wouldn't have been able to bear would have been indifference. If she was pissed off, it meant she cared, at least. He looked down at the floor. It was almost clear.

'Well,' he said, at last, 'we've only got a few more glasses left, and we haven't even begun to talk about you.'

Diana stood, sweeping more glass into the bin. 'Not much to tell.'

'Surely not...'

Diana shrugged. 'Grades - back up to the top after a couple of months. Athletics - first National contest in three weeks. Nightmares - terrifying but forgettable. And that's me done.'

Eric nodded again, pushing a shard of glass with his foot. He cleared his throat slightly. 'Guys?'

'A few.' Diana smiled a little at the floor. 'Nobody special.'

'Interesting...'

'How?'

'Because if my memory serves me correctly...'

'...which it doesn't...' they both chorused.

'...I still owe you dinner,' finished Eric. He raised an eyebrow at her. 'How're you fixed for the seventeenth?'

Diana brushed the last of the glass into the dustbin, sighing melodramatically. 'Oh, I'm sorry. The seventeenth is my 'I Got Stood Up By Eric' anniversary. I tend to spend those evenings in a darkened room listening to sad music and wondering what I did wrong.'

'Sounds cool,' grinned Eric, turning to put the dustbin back under the sink, 'so, what... informal dress, carriages at midni...' his voice trailed off as he saw the kitchen window properly for the first time. 'Holy crap.'

Diana tried to follow his eyeline. 'What? Is there something out there?'

'No.' He crept closer to the window, tracing a finger over the scratch marks. 'It's in here.'

'Huh?'

'On the window. Can you see it?'

He took her hand and ran her finger over the scratches. She crouched slightly and pushed her face in closer so she could see the thin, faint lines.

'Oh...' she breathed. 'Oh shit.'

The window had been scratched from the inside. There was a large circle and, beneath it, two spindly words: 'REMEMBER ME!'

---

'Remember me,' Sheila read aloud as they all stood gathered around the window. She clasped her arms around herself. 'I don't understand. Remember who?'

'That's kinda the point,' smiled Presto, sadly. 'What we're dealing with here is textbook.'

Bobby looked up at the Wiccan. 'There's a textbook?'

'There's a spirit here that's passed on, and doesn't know it,' continued Presto, ignoring the boy, 'and it's getting all mad that it's being ignored and forgotten about.'

'Oh, it wants to be remembered, so it came to _us_ guys?' interjected Eric, 'that's rich!'

'I wonder who it is,' mused Presto. He looked closer at the carving on the window, running a fingertip over the ragged circle. 'And what's this? It's drawn a circle.'

'Maybe it's a clue,' added Diana, 'to help us remember.'

'Circle...' muttered Sheila. 'Sir Cull...'

'Could be an "O",' piped Bobby, 'Like for "Olive" or "Oscar".'

'Or we could just be looking for a big fat guy,' shrugged Eric.

Presto stepped away from the window, squinting at it. 'It's a ring.'

'So, he was a jeweller?' Eric grinned. He was starting to enjoy the game. 'Maybe a telephone engineer...'

'It's ringing the house over the road.' Presto gently drew Sheila back so she could see. 'Look.'

Sheila cocked her head sideways slightly. The scratched circle perfectly encompassed the house opposite. 'Oh.'

'Do you know who lives there?' asked Presto, 'or, more importantly, who might not live there any more?'

Bobby turned to his sister, his frown of confusion matching hers. 'I... don't know.'

'Me neither,' added Sheila, 'I don't think we've ever spoken to them.'

'Really?' Diana frowned. 'I thought you guys were the last word in Neighbourliness. Doesn't your Mom know the names of everybody on the whole street?'

'Well, sure,' replied Sheila, 'but the couple opposite... I don't know... It's not that we _dislike_ them... I think...'

'Maybe we just forgot,' smiled Bobby, sheepishly.

'Hmm.' Presto began to usher them out of the kitchen, watching the window cautiously. 'Well, it seems like somebody wants to talk to us, and since we're rapidly running out of glass here, I'm gonna suggest using a different method.'

'What kind of "method"?' worried Sheila.

Presto stopped still in the living room. The temperature had definitely dropped, and there was a strange static in the air. It was ready. It was waiting for them.

'Clear the table,' he said, 'and bring me candles and a cup.'

The others just stood, looking at him in trepidation, apart from Eric, who beamed with excitement.

'Tell me it's Seance Time.'

Presto shot a small smile at his friend. 'It's Seance Time, Baby!'

---

They used an overturned teacup in the end - one of the old chipped ones from the back of a cupboard. Sheila felt that her mother would be distressed enough at the broken glasses and scratched window without bringing any of her best crockery into the equation. Presto lit the candles carefully before joining the others around the table, placing his fingertips gently on the cup in the middle of the Ouija board. The others mirrored him, cautiously.

'I'm not sure I like this,' whispered Sheila as she placed her hand on the cup, 'aren't these things s'posed to be dangerous?'

'He knows what he's doing,' muttered Eric in response. 'We need to communicate without causing any more damage, don't we?'

'Ssh.' Presto closed his eyes. 'Concentrate.'

They all waited in the tense silence.

The flames on the candles shifted, and flickered, and then all fizzled out as one. Presto smiled slightly, his eyes still shut.

'Are you here?' he asked.

Sheila, trying to calm her panicked breath, took her trembling hand from the cup, wiped the sweat from her palm onto her jeans, and replaced it.

Nothing happened.

'Hello?' asked Presto, again. 'Are you here?'

Diana gasped as the cup began to slide, slowly, across the board. Sheila couldn't surpress a small, frightened whimper as it made its gradual journey towards the word 'Yes'.

Bobby glanced from Eric to Presto, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. 'Cut it out, you guys.'

'I'm not doing anything,' breathed Eric.

The cup stopped on 'Yes'.

'Push it back to the middle,' Presto told the others. They obeyed.

'Is it you who's been doing the things that have frightened us tonight?' he asked.

Again, the cup slid over to 'Yes', and, again, they pulled the cup back into the centre of the board.

'Are you mad at us?'

The cup shifted over to 'No'.

'We want to help you,' continued Presto, 'but we need to know more about who you are. Did you used to live in the house over the road?'

'Yes', again.

Did you know Sheila and Bobby?

'Yes'. The siblings shared a nervous glance with each other, and Diana gently squeezed Sheila's shoulder.

Presto paused, breathlessly, and licked his lips.

'What's your name?'

There was a moment of hesitation, and then the cup began to slowly move again, resting briefly on the letter 'H', then 'A', then 'N', finally stopping on 'K'.

'Oh', sighed Diana.

'Hank,' read Bobby, wracking his brains. 'Hank...'

'Ring any bells, Sheila?' asked Eric.

Sheila shook her head, frowning in uncertainty. 'I... I don't think so... there's something familiar about it, but I just can't place it...'

'Hank...' breathed Diana, 'yes... that's his name!'

The others turned to her. '_Whose_ name?'

'The guy in the dreams.' She looked up at them, the spark of recognition glowing in her eyes. 'I remember it now. He's shaking me. Trying to wake me. He says he can save me, if only can I remember him, and that his name is Hank. He wants me to go someplace with him. Someplace far, far away.'

Eric rolled his eyes. 'Great,' he muttered almost inaudibly, 'now I got competition from a dead guy...'

'Can you remember what he looks like?' interjected Presto.

Diana bit her lip, thinking back. 'He's our age,' she said eventually, 'with blond hair and a... a kind face.'

'...pretty boy...' hissed the dark boy at her side.

An amusing detail struck Diana. 'And he's dressed up like Robin Hood!' she laughed.

Nobody noticed Sheila's face whiten.

'Robin Hood?' grinned Bobby, 'now I would have definitely remembered if _he'd_ been living across the street!'

Sheila shakingly got to her feet. 'Bobby?'

'Yeah,' continued Eric over her, 'something about that description makes me think that Dreamboy probably isn't our...' he blinked at the trembling redhead as she swayed on her feet, holding the back of the chair. 'You OK, Sheila?'

'Where's my scrapbook, Bobby?' whispered Sheila, her voice hoarse with horror.

Bobby twisted around in his chair, looking at his sister in concern. 'On the bookcase. With the games.' He slid to his feet. 'D'you want me to...'

Sheila turned, and tottered over to the bookcase. 'No. I'll get it. Sit down with the others.'

'_We_ were dressed like that.'

The seated group turned from watching Sheila to Presto, who was staring at the motionless teacup, lost in thought.'

'Huh?'

The bespectacled boy gazed up at them. 'We were dressed in Olde Worlde clothes. When we were found.'

'We know.' Diana shivered at the memory of being woken by a stranger, finding herself half naked. 'So what?'

'Five of us were found,' said Presto, 'but who's to say that it was just the five of us that went missing in the first place? Maybe one of us didn't make it back from wherever it was we were. We were all barely alive as it was. Maybe one of us... didn't survive.'

'No...' Bobby shook his head, frowning. 'Somebody would have asked us about him. Especially if he lived opposite!'

'But if _we _forgot him,' explained Presto, 'who's to say who else did? Is it a couple in that house, Bobby? Are they our parents' age? Could they have possibly had a teenaged kid?'

Bobby just looked at Presto, his mouth opening and closing in uncertainty. 'I... I don't...'

They were interrupted by Sheila slamming a thick scrapbook onto the table. 'Found it,' she gasped, beginning to flick through its dog-eared pages.

'Sheila, what is it?' asked Diana, nervously shifting in her chair. 'What's in that book?'

'Bit and bobs,' shrugged Sheila, still rifling through the pages, 'keepsakes, and... and my drawings. They're not very good, just doodles, really... I don't really pay much attention when I'm doing them, but...' She found the page she had been looking for, and opened it out, flat. Stuck in it was a large pencil sketch of a blond youth, wearing a medieval tunic and carrying a bow. She looked up into Diana's horrified eyes. 'Is that him?'

Diana didn't answer, but just swallowed dryly, nodding.

'When did you do that, Sheila?' Eric's tone was flat, masking his fear. He recognised that guy! God only knew where from, but he knew him, all right.

Sheila sat back down, turning the book around so that the others could see properly. There were tears welling up in her eyes. 'On and of, I've been doing them ever since the Incident.'

Presto's eyes widened, picking up the stress in her voice. '"_Them_"?'

Sheila nodded miserably, dipping her head and allowing small, shining tears to drip off the end of her nose as she turned the page, revealing another three doodles of the boy. The next page she turned had yet more, as did the next, and the next, and the next.

She sobbed aloud as Presto reached over and stopped her hand. 'I think we've seen enough, Sheila.'

He set his face and, leaving the book open where it was, put his fingers back on the teacup. The others followed his lead, nervously.

'Hank?' he asked, 'are you the boy in those pictures?'

The cup slid over to 'Yes', much easier this time.

'You know us all, don't you,' continued Presto, 'from the Incident.'

The cup practically leapt onto 'Yes'.

'OK, Hank,' said Presto calmly, pushing the cup back into the middle of the board, 'here's what I think. I think you're lost.'

A dull pulsing began in the table, and, above them, the light fitting began to sway gently. Presto ignored it and continued. 'I think you were lost with us, but we got found and you didn't. And now you're trapped somewhere. Somewhere strange. In a different plane of being to us.' The pulse began to grow to a slow rocking. Still Presto continued unabated. 'I don't want to alarm you, Hank, but there's a very real possibility that you may have died.' There was a loud banging from the ceiling and the table's rocking grew stronger. It seemed to be moving parts of the floor. Presto cleared his throat, controlling his voice as well as he could. 'But we want to help you, Hank. We're going to help you find a place where there'll be peace...'

The light bulb smashed above them, and everybody but Presto yelped automatically. The cup was moving again, moving to 'R', then 'E', then 'M'. It began to speed up as it wrote the words 'REMEMBER ME.' Eric opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again as the cup continued to move with increasing velocity and violence.

'COME BACK OR YOU...'

The cup was moving too fast for their fingers. One by one it fell out of their hands as it wrote, until, to their utter horror, it was flying about the board of its own control.

'ARE ALL GOING TO DIE'

The cup did not stop at the final 'E', but flew from the board and smashed against a wall. Screaming, they leapt to their feet. The table was still shaking, the ceiling and floor still pounding.

'Stop it!' cried Presto, 'Stop this right now!'

The table collapsed, and Sheila screamed a long, desperate, unnatural scream.

'Sis...?' began Bobby before the small redhead flung herself, shaking, to her back.

'It's got her!' yelled Diana as she ran to the other girl's aid.

'Leave her alone!' cried Presto, desperately, 'Take it out on me, if you must, but stop this at once!'

'No, Presto!' screamed Bobby from his fitting sister's side, '_You_ stop it.'

'Bobby...' warned Eric, holding Sheila's head still.

'Piss off, the pair of you,' spat the kid, furiously. 'We thought you could help, but you've only made this ten times worse. Dabbling with stuff you don't understand. Some Ghostbusters you are!'

Presto stood still for a moment, trembling slightly himself, then turned, marching out of the living room, heading straight for the front door.

'Presto?' cried Eric after him, still keeping Sheila's shaking head from hitting the floor, 'What are you doing?'

'I'm gonna find him,' called Presto over his shoulder, opening the door and striding out into the street, facing the house across the road.

'No, Presto!' Eric struggled to pass Sheila's head over to Diana.

Presto stood in the street, his arms flung wide to the house. 'Where are you? Why are you doing this?'

'Presto, come back!' Eric scrabbled to his feet and ran to the front door.

'Show yourself!' screamed the Wiccan.

The door, untouched by any hand, slammed shut in Eric's face just as he got to it.

'No!'

He rattled the handle desperately, pushing and pulling against it with all his body weight as the door stuck fast. And then, seconds later, it unjammed as suddenly as it had slammed, and Eric fell through it into the empty street. He looked around himself, wildly. There was nobody there. The street was completely empty. No onlookers, no nosy neighbours, no Presto.

'Shit!'

His obscenity echoed off the walls of the dark houses as he sprinted to the spot where his friend had, moments earlier, been standing. He looked down at the tarmac. He covered his mouth, screaming into his hands, dropping to his knees. The words were scorched into the road.

PRESTO, COME BACK!


	3. Chapter 3

THE LOST

Three

'Presto!' Still on his knees, Eric reached down, desperately pushing his palms against his own words, scorched into the street. They were cold, and none of the ash came up on his terror-moistened hands. He looked from one end of the empty street to the other, calling out to anybody who might hear. 'What the _fuck_ is going on?' His voice cracked slightly as it echoed along the dead, empty strip of bricks and tarmac.

There were strong, slim hands under his armpits, hoisting him upright. 'Come on.'

He resisted. 'No! Where did he go? Where did he...'

'Come _on_, Eric!' Diana span him around to face her, still clutching his arms. 'Back in the house. It's not safe out here.'

'It's not safe in _there_!'

Diana sighed, eyeing first the front door of the O'Brian house, then the words burnt into the street. 'I know it's not, OK? But this street is all wrong. People should live in this street. It should be alive.'

Eric still searched the street, hopelessly. 'It took Presto...'

'Yeah. It took Presto.' She held his head straight in both hands, meeting his eyes intently. 'I don't want it to take you, too. You still owe me a big, fat, expensive dinner, remember?'

She smiled nervously in the darkness, fighting back the urge to collapse into tears. He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to just slink back indoors as she wanted, but incapable of looking away from her shining eyes. 'But... but...'

'The house isn't safe. But nobody's actually disappeared from it, which makes it ten times better than this street right now.'

She was cut off by another scream, that of a young boy, from inside the house.

'Bobby!'

They both turned and ran back through the front door. Bobby was still screaming, backing away from the door to the living room, clutching a toilet roll. Diana grabbed the distressed child, pulling him into her arms.

'Bobby. Bobby. What's wrong?'

The boy could barely speak through the terror and tears. His voice came out in small, breathless gulps. 'Shei... la... ah... ah... she...'

Eric pushed past them, into the living room where he had left Sheila fitting. He pressed the back of his hand automatically against his nose as the acidic smell hit him. The room was empty, save the furniture, the debris of the seance and a small puddle of vomit, slowly seeping into the carpet. Sheila, too, was gone.

'She was sick,' sobbed Bobby from the hallway, 'so I went to get somethin' to clean her up, and when I came back she was... she was...'

Diana looked up as Eric came back to the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame for support, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

'Sheila, too?' she gasped.

Eric nodded, turning back into the room with a sudden fit of fury.

Bobby watched as the youth kicked at the weakened legs of the broken table, causing it to slide further still towards the floor. 'Whaddaya mean, "Sheila, too"? Where's Presto?'

Diana ran her fingers through the child's sandy hair, as comfortingly as she could. 'He's gone, Bobby. Like your sister.'

They both flinched as Eric grabbed the Ouija board from the remains of the table and flung it against a far wall, screaming. He paused for a moment, his back to them, heaving with hard breaths, then bowed his head, his clawed hands covering his eyes.

Diana gave Eric a moment to compose himself, but when it became obvious that wasn't about to happen, took the toilet roll gently out of Bobby's hands and approached Eric.

'D'you want a tissue?'

'_NoIdonotwantafuckingtissue!_'

Bobby wiped a gob of teary phlegm from his nose with the back of his hand. '_I_ could do with a tissue.'

Diana rolled off a generous amount of paper for Bobby and handed it to him with a sad smile. 'We'll find them, OK?'

'No we won't.' Eric pulled his hands from his eyes and looked from Diana to Bobby. His face was flushed with anger, but, amazingly, dry. 'This Dreamboy of yours has taken them away, to Hell, or Limbo, or wherever it is he's tormenting us from. He wants us to go back to him, remember?' He laughed, joylessly. 'Remember? It's hopeless. He's gonna get us all.'

'Don't say that!' screamed Bobby. 'We're gonna get Sheila back!'

'It's the truth!' cried Eric with an equal violence. 'I don't wanna believe it either, it's got Presto, too...'

Bobby snarled as Diana held him back by the shoulder. 'Presto's not your brother, Eric.'

Eric blinked, as though that concept were hitting him for the first time. 'No...' he muttered, 'no he's not.' He stumbled over to the sofa, and slumped down in it. 'I mean... he _wasn't_.'

Diana sat down next to him, still clutching the roll of toilet paper. 'Less of the past tense, Eric. Everything's not lost.'

'I just...' sighed Eric, '...everybody needs a person they can count on, and my folks are shit at that sorta thing, all right? We can't all be The Waltons.' He watched Bobby shuffle over to the destroyed table and pick Sheila's scrapbook up from the wreckage, sadly. 'Besides,' he continued, 'he made me laugh. And did you ever taste his coffee? Fit for a king...'

Eric trailed off into silence. He and Diana sat watching Bobby flick backwards through his sister's book, frowning at the pictures.

'I feel like I know this guy too,' muttered the kid as he studied the book, 'I'm sure I've seen him somewhere before.'

'Join the club, Kiddo,' sighed Eric, propping his elbows on his knees and pushing his hands through his hair.

Bobby reached the end of the drawings, and continued to flick idly through the scrapbook. He stopped at the inside front page, and stared. 'Holy cow.'

Eric lifted his head. 'What?'

Bobby backed away from them, eyes still on the book. 'Holy Holy Holy _cow_!'

Diana stood, and went to the boy. 'What is it?'

'Bobby - I know you're reading this,' read Bobby aloud from the book, 'and I know I must be gone by now.'

Diana took the book off the child. 'There's a letter here,' she breathed, 'from Sheila. To Bobby and the rest of us.'

Eric said nothing, but curled back into himself again.

'I want you to know I'm safe,' read Diana, 'but please understand, Bobby, you and the others aren't.' Diana paused, licking her dry lips. 'Go with Hank when he calls you,' she continued, 'remember him. He isn't going to hurt you. But if you don't do as he says, you're all going to... going to...' she trailed off.

There was a moment's tense silence before Eric spoke from under his arms.

'When would she have found time to write that?'

'She didn't write it tonight,' replied Bobby, quietly. 'It was at the start of her book.'

'That doesn't mean anything.'

Bobby snatched the book off Diana and held it open towards Eric, furiously.

'See the ink?' he cried, violently, 'it's the pink glitter pen I got her when she was really down after the Incident. She used it over and over for about a month until it ran out. That was more than a year ago!'

Eric began to reply, but was cut off by more rhythmic bangs. This time is was the walls that shook. Framed pictures fell from their mounts and smashed on the floor. The clock leapt from the wall and was hurled by invisible hands across the room, narrowly missing Eric's head. It was only when the cacophony halted suddenly that he realised he was on his feet with the others, and that they were all clutching one another, both in terror and support. They all waited for a moment, silently, secretly waiting for one of their dilapidated group to begin fitting, or worse, disappear. Nothing happened. Eric looked about himself at the new mess in the room.

'We're leaving.'

'But...' began Diana.

'We're leaving, Diana, right now.' Eric stepped back from the other two, eyeing them both seriously. 'This house is not safe. Maybe Presto disappeared from the street but he didn't get attacked, or threatened with death. That only happens in here. So we're gonna run. As far away from this street as we can.' Something resting against the kitchen door caught his eye. He strode over to pick it up. 'Take something you can use as a weapon,' he added.

Bobby snorted. 'It's a ghost, Eric. Are you seriously suggesting that we try to _hit_ it?'

Eric raised an eyebrow. 'If it comes anywhere near me I'm gonna rip its fucking dick off,' he replied with a dangerously calm sincerity.

'With a tea tray?' asked Diana.

Eric looked down briefly at the tray in his hands. 'Listen, the next time shards of glass start flying around, you're gonna be awfully appreciative of the tray.'

Diana shrugged, and started pulling at a loose leg on the destroyed table.

Bobby looked from one teenager to the other. A tea tray and part of a dinner table. _That_ was what these guys were planning to use as weapons? What were they gonna do, give it splinters? He sighed to himself. _The bigger they get, the smarter they ain't_.

'I'll go get my baseball bat, shall I?'

Diana and Eric looked up from their struggle trying to dislodge the table leg.

'We should go with you...'

Bobby shook his head, already turning to sprint up the stairs. 'I know where it is. I'll be back down in a second.'

'OK,' replied Diana as the boy began to noisily climb the stairs, 'but keep talking at least.'

Bobby hurried into his bedroom, feeling under his bed for his bat. 'So, what do you want me to say?' he called.

'Anything!' came Eric's muffled answer from downstairs, 'just so we know you haven't... you know..'

'Uh, OK...' muttered Bobby as he grabbed his bat and knelt up. 'I'm in my room, I've got my bat, I'm getting up, I'm...'

'Bobby?'

'Yeah?' Bobby stood up, looking for the speaker. It hit him at the same time that he realised there was nobody else in his bedroom that the voice had been his sister's.

'Bob..?' came a concerned voice from downstairs.

Sheila's disembodied voice spoke at the same time, coloured with panic. 'Bobby, listen to me.'

Bobby began to back out of the room. 'I can hear Sheila,' he called.

'You have to remember, Bobby,' continued Sheila's voice, 'you have to snap out of it.'

'You... you can?' called Diana from downstairs, 'Is she OK?'

'Hank's trying to help you,' Sheila continued, 'he's your friend, remember?'

'He's got her,' breathed Bobby.

'Remember the funfair?' echoed the disembodied voice. 'Remember the ride? The Realm, Bobby? Remember?'

'Bobby?' cried both Eric and Diana from downstairs, their footsteps hurrying towards the foot of the stairs.

Bobby stood, transfixed, on the landing, facing into his empty room. His lips moved silently as the faintest shadows of memories began to dance around his mind. They had gone to the funfair. And it hadn't been a ruin, it had been all bright and noisy. At the end of the day there had been a ride they hadn't seen before. It had been his idea to try it. They'd got on, all six of them. All _six_ of them. And then... and then...

Eric and Diana were already halfway up the stairs when the bang happened. One single, almighty shudder which jolted the floor from under their feet. Eric fell forward onto his hands while Diana managed to grab the bannister to keep her upright, but the jolt caused Bobby, standing with his back to the stairs, to suddenly lose his balance and tumble backwards down the stairs. Both teenagers automatically scrabbled forwards, their hands raised, to catch the boy, but it was obvious they were going to be too late. The child was going to land, headfirst, on the staircase before either of them could get to him.

Only he didn't. Nanoseconds before he hit the stairs, he vanished. Simply vanished. Eric and Diana looked up at where the child had been in horror as his baseball bat rolled noisily down the stairs after him.

'Oh no...' gasped Diana, 'Oh no...'

The great cacophony began again, rumbling and growing from the living room and kitchen into the hallway. Eric flipped over onto his back, facing the ground floor of the house furiously.

'You Bastard!' he cried at the shaking walls of the hallway, ' he was just a little kid!'

Diana began to drag him up the stairs by his collar. Unthinkingly, he followed, still railing at the chaos that was beginning to creep up the staircase.

'Fuck you!' he screamed, 'Fuck you! Rot in Hell! Leave us alone!'

The staircase shook violently, throwing photographs from their hooks one by one, moving up towards the landing. Eric barely noticed himself grabbing the bat and allowing Diana to pull him towards the bathroom. He was too busy cursing the unseen force that pummelled the house.

Diana was no more aware of her own actions. The adrenaline had taken over. She had no time to think, or to mourn the friends that had gone. Her instincts had taken over, and their only need was to save herself, and this one person that remained. She pushed him roughly into the small bathroom and slammed the door shut on them both, locking it. They both sat on the floor, their breathing hard, their backs pressed against the door as the tremors found it and pounded against it ineffectually from the other side. They waited for the onslaught to stop, which it did, suddenly. Still they sat, wordlessly, propping the door shut with their bodies. Diana felt a hand touch hers. Her fists were still clawed tightly around the table leg, but she allowed the one he had touched to relax enough for him to slip his fingers under hers.

It came again. They had been expecting it. It was like many hands slapping and punching the door. Their bodies, hunched against the door, felt the force of each and every blow, but still they didn't move. Without warning, it stopped yet again, and they were left huddled into one another in dark silence.

'I was gonna get an early night,' whispered Eric after a while.

She turned her head. He was barely visible in the gloom. 'Hmm?'

'I was tired,' continued Eric, half to himself, 'I was gonna read, and have some of Mrs Greene's wicked veggie lasagne, and have a boring, early night. And now it's not even midnight and here I am, shored up in the bathroom of America's Most Haunted House, about to go "poof" into the underworld...' Diana caught the glint of his teeth as he grinned at her. 'Never know what to expect when I'm with you, Deeds. Guess that's why I like you.'

Diana huffed a little in mock irritation. 'Tell me about it. _I_ was going to wash up, send Bobby up to his room with his comics and settle down to a video with my girl friend.'

'Lesbian Porno?' asked Eric, hopefully.

Diana laughed, surprisingly loudly. '"Cinderella". _I_ wanted to watch "Halloween". Glad I didn't, now.' She squeezed his hand a little tighter. 'So are you sorry you came?'

'No way.' He found the luminescent ovals of her eyes in the darkness. 'I mean, the abject terror and impending doom really sucks, but... if I hadn't come, you'd be on your own by now. And I couldn't have that.'

He paused, squinting to see the shape of the young woman in the darkness. His thumb began to trace a small figure of eight softly on the side of her hand. She reciprocated by gently stroking the valley of his palm with her own thumb.

'Besides,' he added, 'it was probably worth it to see you again. It's a pity we never got that date. I may as well tell you now, I'm kinda broke, so the Restaurant was off. I was just gonna cook.'

'Peruvian food?'

'Not unless you have a guinea pig you're not particularly attached to.' Eric smiled at her again. 'But I make a Coq Au Vin that'll turn your knees to jelly. Dessert would be on you, of course.'

Diana raised an eyebrow at him. He didn't see it so much as sense it. 'What _were_ you planning? It all sounds way too sophisticated for me.'

He grinned. 'I'm sure you'll learn to cope. Just remember to start with the cutlery on the outside...'

They fell into another brief silence. Her thumb moved from his palm to the inside of his wrist, brushing small circles against the sensitive blue veins near the surface. The hairs on the back of his neck were already on end, so they didn't really have anywhere to go.

'You really are ridiculously pretty,' he breathed, even though he couldn't see her.

He gasped as he felt her gently pull him closer towards her.

_So this is how I go out..._ he thought, leaning in so he could feel her shortened breaths on his face, _...guess there's worse ways..._

He knew he should close his eyes. That was what they always did in the movies. But he didn't want to let the faint outline of her out of his sight, unless it was taken from him like all the others. Besides, it was dark. How would she be able to tell? He held his breath, opening his lips slightly as he leaned in closer still.

The toilet and bathroom cabinet exploded simultaneously, showering them both in cold water and shards of mirror. Eric flinched automatically, grabbing the tray and holding it over himself and the hunched figure beside him, screwing up his eyes to protect them from the onslaught as the glass tinkled around him. Stillness settled again, and after a couple of seconds, Eric allowed himself a small, nervous laugh.

'Told you you'd be glad I brought the tray.'

There was no reply. No other panicked breathing save his own. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had to. There was nothing. No shape against the door. She had been taken. He was alone. He began to push himself across the bathroom floor, away from the locked door, not caring about the broken glass as it bit into him, picking up the baseball bat as he went. The Thing had found a way in, and had taken her. It was in. He couldn't get out. And he was alone.


	4. Chapter 4

THE LOST

Four

He was alone. His back pressed against the bathtub, he sat, petrified, in the dark room, his breath harsh and irregular with panic. He sat with the tray in one hand and the baseball bat in the other, soaking wet and covered in glass, and waited. He didn't know what for, but he waited. It was in there with him - he could feel it.

'Come on,' he whispered to nobody inparticular, 'come on...'

Nothing happened. For want of anything else to do, he pushed himself up to his feet against the bathtub. He toyed with the idea of running, of bursting though the door suddenly and seeing how far he could get before the inevitable happened. He flicked a brief glance up at the window. It was too small to fit through. Wasn't it? Perhaps if he opened it up all the way, he could squeeze out and find a safe way down to the dark street below, and then it would just be a matter of...

Suddenly it was there. He felt strong hands grabbing the back of his head, holding it still. He thrashed wildly with his arms, hitting nothing but air. There was something in his mouth - something hard and invisible and dirty tasting. Oh God... Oh God... what was happening to him? He couldn't scream, and was too surprised to think to bite down on the violating object as it hit the back of his throat. He gagged. It pushed in again, forcing its way down his throat, and he felt the wave of hot vomit rise up to meet it. His head was released and he fell forward to the toilet bowl in just enough time before he threw up.

'What the fuck...?' he gasped, still spitting out the last few globs. What was it doing? It was _playing_ with him! _What_ had it pushed into his mouth? Why had it left him, alone? His head span. Appalling mental images were flashing through his imagination. He used the toilet cistern to drag himself back onto his feet, too afraid to collect the weapons he had dropped. He pressed himself into a corner and screamed at the nothingness in the dark room.

'If you're gonna kill me, just kill me!'

In answer, the bathroom light snapped on. Eric yelped slightly, narrowing his eyes against the uncustomary brightness. But he saw it before the light flickered off again - the single word, carved over and over again into the wall - REMEMBER.

'Why are you doing this?'

The light flashed on again. The word was everywhere this time - scrawled into the walls, the door, the ceiling, the cupboards, the floor... oh Jesus. He spotted the cuts in the front of his sweater and held the waistband out in front of himself. PLEASE, ERIC! The words had been cut in his sweater upside down, so he could read them while still wearing it. He wanted to cry. Again, the lightbulb switched off and he was plunged into darkness.

'...please, eric...' It was only a small voice. He hadn't really heard it. It was in his head, not in the room. But it wasn't the voice that he spoke to himself with. It was familiar, nonetheless. '...please. come back...'

He clawed at his forehead, furiously. 'No! No! Go away! Get outta here!'

The invisible hand slapped him, hard, across the face. The force of it slammed his head sideways into the wall. He gasped for breath, shocked and stinging, and tried to grope his way out of the corner, but his head was grabbed from behind and he was slapped again.

'...Come On!...' the disembodied voice in his head was getting louder, was becoming more insistent. '...Come On, Eric!...'

The walls began to pound. He was weak. Weak and suddenly very, very heavy. He could barely move his limbs as the many hands dragged him roughly over to the bathtub, now somehow full to the brim with murky water. He tried to grab the shower curtain for support as he was pulled along, but it ripped from its rail in his hands, sending shampoo bottles flying as it did. He could feel his legs beginning to buckle.

'no...' he pleaded before he was pushed down to his knees amongst the shards of glass, in front of the tub. He felt the pressure on the back of his head and just managed to draw a deep breath and hold it before his face was forced under the foul, freezing water. His head was jerked up again suddenly, and he coughed and spluttered blindly, trying to take another gasp of air. He was thrown off his guard, however, by another hard slap to the face, and his head was submerged yet again before he was ready. And they held it under this time, while he thrashed and flailed helplessly. His body was growing steadily heavier and weaker. And colder. His lungs ached to take another breath, and he could hear his loud heartbeat throbbing in his ears. It was slowing down. This was it. He was going to die. He'd told the Thing to kill him, and it was killing him. He stopped fighting, and let his heavy, tired arms fall by his side. He could feel the floor pushing up at his bent knees, as if he were in an elevator rocketing skywards. It wasn't fair! He was too young! Why take him _now_? He'd only just started to turn his life around. Sure, he was broke, he was living in a basement and working all the hours God sent, but he was _free_ for once, dammit... free to live how he wanted and be with the people he wanted. Free to be himself. Only now the people he wanted to be with were all gone, and he was gonna... gonna...

He was breathing again. He'd been pulled out of the bath - he wasn't sure when - and laid down face up on the floor. He was soaked and freezing, and still horribly heavy. There seemed to be a draught coming from somewhere. He coughed and choked, spitting out water. The hands were still there, but they were no longer grabbing or slapping him. They were merely patting at his cheeks, gently. Eric groaned, squinting up into the gloom. For some reason, the world around him was turning a dark shade of green.

'Eric? Eric?' The voice at his side was perfectly clear now. 'Come on, Eric. Please!'

He was vaguely aware that there were more hands around him. One set was stroking his hair. Another was tenderly holding his hand. The hands that were patting his cheek briefly stopped to feel the faint pulse at his throat.

_They're trying to ease you into their world! They're trying to lull you into death!_

Faint shadows were starting to form amongst the dark green that surrounded him. Far off, a girl was quietly crying. Something licked his face, and he gasped.

Another voice spoke, from just above his cradled hand. 'I think he's coming 'round!'

_No! No! You mustn't let them take you! Don't go to that place!_

He screwed up his eyes, fighting back the green, wilfully slipping from the hands that held him. The lonely black bathroom asserted itself around him once more, but their voices followed him back like terrible echoes.

'No! (...no...) He's fading again! (...gain...)'

'Please come back, Eric, (...eric...) please don't die! (...die...)'

'Do something, Hank! (Hank! Hank!)'

He tried to scream as the hands found him once more, dragging up onto his feet, but no sound came from his throat. The word REMEMBER was everywhere - just everywhere. He could see it even in the darkness, shining out, daubed on every surface, etched into his skin, carved into the air itself. REMEMBER! REMEMBER! REMEMBER!

_Remember what?_

'Remember, Eric? Remember the ride? Remember the Realm? Please remember. You're not home and dry yet. I need you to come back. Come back.'

He found his voice. He found a pool of strength somewhere from deep deep inside him to throw his head back and scream.

'No!'

'Come back!'

'No!' He was shaking now, by the shoulders, his head rolling around like a rag doll's.

'Come on, you're nearly there.'

'No! I don't... I don't want...' The green was returning.

'You hate this world, don't you?'

'Yes!'

'But you remember it. Don't you?'

Eric closed his eyes against the green. '...mmmuh...'

His eyelids were physically forced open.

'I know you hate it. But it doesn't just go away like that.'

Eric looked in horror at the sight before him. The bathroom was gone. The whole house was gone. It had been replaced with a dusk lit swamp. He was still heavy, cold and weak. His head was wet and there was the taste of vomit in his mouth.

'You have to stay with us,' said the voice from behind him. 'You mustn't die.'

Eric blinked pathetically in confusion. '...die...?'

Hank turned him around to face him, still holding him upright. 'You were poisoned, Eric. You were dying.'

Eric shook his head drunkenly, struggling to bring the fair youth into focus.

_That's the guy... the guy from the... um..._

'I wasn't... I was fine.'

'Keep moving.' Hank slung Eric's arm over his shoulder and began to walk, forcing Eric to walk with him. 'Let me guess,' he continued, 'you were back home, but weird things started to happen, and everyone began to disappear.'

Eric wondered only silently how the other young man had known this, watching his own feet as they stumbled and struggled to walk.

'You all had the same dream, Eric, together.' Hank shifted Eric's weight slightly, trying to force the youth to carry himself more as they walked. 'You thought I was dead, thought what I was doing to wake you up was a ghost trying to kill you all.'

'You _did_ die...' mumbled Eric, 'I was doin' OK an' then you brought me here...'

'Oh yeah?' Hank stopped walking and turned his head to Eric's. 'what was home like? Give me some details. What did you do?'

Eric frowned, blankly, attempting to search a memory that suddenly was full of meaningless static. 'Um...'

'See?' said Hank calmly, 'you're beginning to forget it already. Just like all the others...'

'Th'others...' slurred Eric, but Hank was looking off into the swamp, suddenly distracted.

Eric tried to focus on the swamp, searching for whatever had caught the Ranger's eye. There was a stirring in the mire, then a large, deep, 'Glop'. Hank pushed Eric off his shoulder quickly, letting the other lad fall weakly to the ground. Eric barely had the strength to look up as Hank swiftly drew his bow and fired. A terrible screech from the swamp grabbed his attention and he shifted his head just in time to see the mud covered creature fall back in pain, flailing with its giant, snakelike body and hissing and screaming with its fanged, female, human face. The beast rose up again, briefly, lurching at Eric, its fangs bared, but another burst from the bow sent it reeling once more and slithering away.

'Wha...' Eric gaped as Hank dragged him back onto his feet. 'What the Hell was that?'

'Swamp Mermaid,' scowled Hank, 'don't you remember DM's warning? They like their dinner still alive, their brains still ticking, so their poison paralyses and causes hallucinations. Hallucinations that can be shared between more than one person. From what you guys have said, it seems your dream was something good enough that you didn't want to be woken up, but not so perfect that you started to suspect. And, since I didn't get bitten, it tried to write me out of the picture...' Hank trailed off, concerned at Eric's lost expression. '_Don't_ you remember, Eric? Don't you remember anything?'

'I don't...' stammered Eric, 'I don't know...'

Hank frowned again, slightly. 'No jokes?'

'...I... I'm sorry, I...'

'Jesus. You're still pretty bad, aren't you?'

Eric hung his head, limply, closing his eyes. He was still way too heavy and cold. he wanted to lie down and go to sleep for a long, long time. Hank caught his face and slapped it again, lightly. The memory of invisible hands grabbing and slapping him brought him back into consciousness with a start.

'Presto said that thing got you first,' continued Hank, 'bit right through your amour. You must have got most of the poison, because you were damn near impossible to wake up. Even with everybody else awake and helping me... we tried yelling at you, shaking you, throwing water at you, hitting you... we even tried making you sick, since that worked with Sheila...'

'...you wrote to remember...' mumbled Eric.

Hank shook his head. 'What good would that do, Eric? You were asleep. In the end, we had to submerge you in the coldest puddle we could find. We held you down as long as we could without drowning you.'

'...mmm...'

Eric closed his eyes against the memory of the freezing water, and his own helplessness beneath it. Not wanting to be slapped awake again, he gathered his strength to open his eyes once more. He almost slumped as Hank released his shoulders gingerly, but somehow his legs managed to keep his upright.

'Can you stand?'

Eric shrugged. 'Guess so.'

With a pat to Eric's back that nearly knocked him over, Hank turned away from him.

'Probably better if you try to get back without my help,' he told Eric, 'get some your strength back. We'll need to move again soon.'

Eric nodded, but didn't move.

'I'll see to the others,' continued Hank, 'They're all recovering fast. You should soon, too.' He shot the other boy a worried look. 'See if we can get a blanket conjured up or something,' he added, half to himself, 'you're still looking kinda... blue.'

Eric finally found his voice. 'Why did you interfere?' he croaked, 'Why not just let us be?'

Instead of the look of irritation Eric was expecting at his ungrateful outburst, Hank broke into a relieved smile.

'Hey,' he replied,'you're not getting out of the Realm that easy, Buster.'

'I wasn't joking, I meant it,' muttered Eric in response. But Hank was already gone.

Eric stumbled forwards a little, catching a nearby branch to keep his unsteady legs from buckling and catching sight of his reflection in a nearby puddle as he did. "Kinda Blue" had been far from an exaggeration. He looked like a zombie - a blue tinged, black-eyed, exhausted zombie. He blinked at the face in the puddle. He could no longer remember the details of the dream that had nearly killed him, but he was vaguely aware that he had been happy. His life had been going in the right direction. He had found things within his friends and himself that were now lost. He had let the darkness and the fear in again, and he had lost it all.

'I meant it...'


End file.
